


Stranger Danger

by Murder_Kitten



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:35:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24820021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murder_Kitten/pseuds/Murder_Kitten
Summary: Draco Malfoy is rich, entitled and marked as a Death Eater. Ronald Weasley is poor, constantly doubts himself and is working to bring down Lord Voldemort. Do opposites attract? Or do they merely create irreconcilable differences? Only time will tell...Formerly a collection of Draco/Ron oneshots. Condensing into a multichap to save my sanity.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley
Comments: 23
Kudos: 156





	1. Tears of Amortentia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StoriesbyNessie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoriesbyNessie/gifts).



> Disclaimer: the characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.R and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended. I make no profit from these works. All stories are for fun and entertainment only. 
> 
> I always welcome reviews/comments of people who enjoy my works.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read. I hope you enjoy it.

It started out innocently enough. A mere wager between friends. Or as close to friends as Slytherins got. Theo had thought of it, of course. That bubbling cauldron with its mother-of-pearl sheen and spiralling steam had called to them all with its sweet smelling depths.

“What do you smell, Draco?” Theo asked, leaning across him to borrow his potion scales, and nodding at the vat of Amortentia bubbling away, mere feet from them.

“I smell someone who didn’t shower this morning," Draco said, wrinkling his nose at his dorm-mate.

“I slept in,” Theo shrugged, glancing across at the Gryffindor table where Potter and Weasley were messing about as usual.

“What do you think Potter smells?” Theo said curiously.

Draco smirked. “Anyone’s guess. Probably Granger’s library bag or the she-Weasel’s broom polish.”

“Care to make it interesting?” Theo said with a grin.

“How interesting?” Draco asked as Theo slipped a vial from his pocket and filled it with a little Amortentia while Professor Slughorn’s back was turned. The Slytherin sealed and pocketed it with a wink.

“Twenty galleons on Granger?” Theo shrugged.

“Let’s raise the stakes. Fifty galleons on the she-Weasel and you’ve got a deal," Draco said smugly, as he and Nott shook hands.

“Deal," Nott said, grinning.

* * *

Planting the potion in Potter’s dormitory had been easy of course. Soaked into a batch of chocolate cauldrons and addressed as a gift from a secret admirer. Now all they had to do was wait.

It took longer than they’d thought and didn’t go at all how they’d expected. A simple miscalculation… Weasley had swallowed the potion laced chocolates instead. Draco and Theo had watched, concealed in an alcove as Potter and Weasley had left Gryffindor Tower bickering.

“I’m in love with him. I can’t stop thinking about him, Harry,” Weasley was saying, tripping about in a daze as Potter guided him out of the portrait hole.

“Can you stop talking about him at least?” Potter said irritably as Draco and Theo grinned. _Who_ was Weasley’s secret love?

“No, I could sing about him. Our love will be the stuff of songs. Of legend. What do you think they’ll call it?” Weasley wondered aloud.

“Insane for one thing," Potter muttered.

“You don’t understand. You’ve never known love like this,” Weasley said dreamily.

“I’m pretty sure nobody has,” Harry said grimly as Nott snorted.

“Even his name is so, so regal. Draco. _Draco Malfoy,”_ Weasley said, grinning like an idiot.

Draco coughed and sputtered at that as Nott shushed him with a grin. This was an embarrassment of riches.

“Where did you say he’d be?” Ron asked, smoothing his hair.

“Slughorn’s Office. He has extra Potions classes with him,” Potter lied.

“Oh wonderful,” Weasley said, stumbling a little. “Have you seen Draco mix a potion Harry? He’s so focused. Intense, you know? And his hands..."

The sound of Weasley’s voice trailed off as he and Potter disappeared down the corridor. Theo and Draco got to their feet and followed the Gryffindors, curious to see how it played out. Draco had to hold Nott up, he was laughing so hard as they listened at the door.

They weren’t quite prepared for the door to be flung open ten minutes later, and for Slughorn to hurry past, yelling for Madam Pomfrey.

Curious, they peeked around the edge of the door. Potter was bent over Weasley who was unconscious on the floor, his freckled face deathly pale. 

Draco began to edge away from the door, but not before he spotted a half empty bottle of mead. One that looked painfully familiar. One that had been planned for someone _else._

Sickened at the knowledge of what he’d done, Draco tore down the hallway and barricaded himself in the nearest bathroom, where he emptied the contents of his stomach into the nearest toilet. Wiping his mouth on his shaking hand, Draco felt the tears burn his eyes and before he knew what was happening, he was hunched on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, rocking back and forth as great, wrenching sobs shook his lithe frame for what seemed an eternity.

Ron Weasley was the only boy he’d ever cried for…


	2. Dragons Help Everyone Feel Better

Draco looked anxiously around the Great Hall. Breakfast was almost over and there was still no sign of Ron Weasley. Where could he be? It wasn't at all like Ron to miss a meal, especially not breakfast, the most important meal of the day - and the most disgusting, Draco thought, glancing at his lumpy, grey porridge with disgust. If an elf had served this up at the Manor, his father would have the offending creature flogged.

Lucius already suspected Hogwarts was a second-rate institution. When he heard about this… Well, Draco would make sure not to miss the show. Nothing was more entertaining than Mr Lucius Malfoy chucking a right fit. The last time it had happened, it had been because Narcissa adamantly refused to allow her husband to keep a peacock in the house. 

Draco smirked at the memory of that particular argument and then looked around for Weasley again. The redhead was noticeably absent. Potter and Granger were sitting at the Gryffindor table surrounded by their usual crowd of admirers, so where was Weasley? 

Draco determined to find out and abandoned what remained of his breakfast without a second thought, making his way to Gryffindor tower. Weasley had given him the new password only yesterday when Draco had visited the dorm for their accustomed hour of quiet reading time together. It was the best part of his day. Weasley had a surprisingly good reading voice and Draco loved to listen to him read aloud. 

"Here there be dragons," he announced once he reached the portrait hole, and the Fat Lady swung forwards to admit him. Draco glanced around the common room, but it was empty, most students either finishing off their breakfast or on their way to classes, which were due to start in the next twenty minutes. 

Draco bounded up the stairs to the boy's dormitory, prepared to chastise Weasley for sleeping in and making him eat breakfast alone. 

"Weasley!" Draco called, shoving the door open with a bang. "Get out of bed you lazy prick!" 

Ron didn't answer him, so Draco strode over to his bed and tore the curtains open. Ron groaned and buried his face deeper into his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut at the bright light that now filled the dormitory. 

Draco reached out to shake him, but before he'd so much as touched him, he noted Ron's flushed cheeks, he could practically feel the heat radiating off him. 

"Are you sick?" Draco asked, horrified. 

"Think so," Ron mumbled. "I have a god-awful headache and I feel all shaky. Hot and cold at the same time. My throat hurts too, feels like someone poured Bubotuber pus down it," he complained. 

Draco grimaced at that mental image, then reached out a hand and laid it against Ron's forehead to check his temperature. 

"Do you want me to get Madam Pomfrey?" Draco asked, resting a comforting hand on Ron's shoulder. 

"No," Ron objected immediately. "Don't want a fuss. Just a silly cold anyway. I'm fine." 

"If you say so," Draco shrugged, getting up to pour Ron a glass of water from the jug on the windowsill. 

"Here, drink. You need to keep your fluids up," Draco said, trying to persuade Ron to sit up and take the glass. 

"Not thirsty," Ron said, not even opening his eyes. 

"I wasn't asking, Weasley. Drink it or wear it," Draco said threateningly. 

Ron threw him a filthy look, but sat up and drained the glass, before flopping back down on his pillow. 

"Where are you going?" Ron asked, as Draco stood up and made for the door. 

"I'm going to get you some tea with a little honey and lemon - don't argue with me, it's good for you," Draco said bossily. "And maybe some soup too." 

"What kind?" Ron asked croakily. 

"What do you fancy? Chicken? Tomato? Minestrone? Pea and ham?" Draco asked, reeling off flavours. 

"The one with the letters in it," Ron said sleepily. 

"Alphabet soup? Really?" Draco said with a smirk. 

"No, wait. Get the one with the dragon shaped pasta in it," Ron said, changing his mind. 

"Dragon soup? That will help you feel better?" Draco said sceptically. 

"Dragons help everyone feel better," Ron declared, opening one eye. 

"Fine, dragon soup and some tea. I'll be back in a few minutes," Draco promised, disappearing down the stairs. 

He was back in twenty minutes with the tea and soup, insisting on spoon feeding Ron like a child. 

"Here comes the dragonnnnnnn," Draco said in a sing song voice, smirking as he zoomed a spoon loaded with soup through the air, landing it in Ron's open mouth and grinning as soup sloshed onto Ron's favourite shirt. 

"Should've brought a bib," Draco commented, as Ron rolled his eyes at him. Though he wouldn't admit it, Draco's ridiculous antics were making him feel a little better. 

Perhaps the best part of all this was that he didn't have to go through it alone, Ron thought, closing his eyes at that comforting idea, Draco's smirk his last thought before sleep claimed him. 

"Feel better soon, Weasley," Draco said quietly, picking up a book and sitting down on Ron's secondhand trunk to read. He wasn't going anywhere… 


	3. Fire In His Eyes

Draco couldn’t stop staring at him. Those blue eyes just radiated intensity. Up until last month, Draco hadn’t ever thought he’d see him again. So much had happened since the last time he’d seen Ron Weasley.

There had been the poisoned mead of course… how Draco had tortured himself over that. Then Dumbledore had died and fallen from the Astronomy Tower. But Weasley hadn’t come after him that night. Just Potter… and then the next he’d heard was that Ron Weasley had contracted spattergroit over the summer. He was supposedly horribly disfigured, unable to speak and deathly ill. The Death Eaters who had visited the Burrow in the wake of the Weasley/Delacour wedding had reported as much. Ron Weasley, it was said, would die a slow, painful death, burned out by the disease.

And Draco had never told him. He wanted to tell him he was sorry. For _everything._ But apologies were for grovelers, for the weak. Malfoys were not allowed to be weak. Or so his father said. So Draco believed… until last month, when out of the blue, Weasley had turned up, bound and gagged with Potter and Granger at the Manor. Draco hadn’t been able to look at him. Those impossibly blue eyes could see through him, _would_ see through him, would inevitably see through the masks, the layers of bullshit and see the truth, see that Draco was afraid, and he couldn’t have that. Their eyes had met for the briefest of moments, right before Draco’s old house elf had apparated Weasley and his friends away.

And now here he was again. He should have been thinner, Draco thought, annoyed. Shouldn’t he look like Draco himself was? Tortured and half-starved after the events of the last year… But no, of course Weasley looked fucking fantastic. His frame had filled out even more, broader shouldered and more well-built than he had been in sixth year. No longer the too-tall, gangly, awkward teenager. Ron Weasley was all grown up and good looking with his sun-kissed freckled skin, and bright red hair that seemed to shimmer under light, and his deep blue eyes. Ron had grown and Draco had shrunk, he realised. He’d withdrawn into himself and closed himself off to survive, and Weasley… Weasley had risen to the challenges of war and found himself equal to it. Draco shook his head; he was nothing compared to Weasley and his heroic friends and he knew it.

Draco tore himself out of his internal agonising and forced himself to focus on the situation – fire was all around him. Fire as red and unruly as Weasley’s hair… Draco grimaced as the walls of flame closed in. That would be his last thought, wouldn’t it? _Fucking Weasley._

“Come on!” a voice yelled in his ear and suddenly those impossibly blue eyes were an inch from Draco’s face, Weasley himself holding a broomstick in his hand. Potter and Granger were already soaring above the flames on their own broomstick, heading for the door, their only way out.

Draco snatched the broom and flung one leg over it, as Ron clambered up behind him. Draco kicked off from the hot ground, which was beginning to crack under the searing heat, and suddenly they were airborne, the flames crackling below them.

Draco sped for the door, following Potter and Granger. Weasley slipped and slid sideways on the broom, nearly making Draco lose control of it as the broomstick lurched. What would happen if they crashed? Draco really didn’t want to find out.

“Hold onto me!” Draco yelled at him, and Weasley threw him a look, but he did as Draco asked, his hands clasping the Slytherin firmly around the waist. A thrill shot through Draco at the contact and he really did lose control then, the broomstick spinning out as Draco crashed spectacularly, skidding along the length of the corridor outside the Room of Requirement, Weasley still clinging tightly to him and yelling obscenities into his ear, as they finally came to a screeching halt. The screeching was all Weasley as Draco shook with mingled coughs and sputtering laughter.

It was insane, all of it. All Weasley had to do was touch him for Draco’s perfect control to falter. The implication of that wasn’t lost on Draco; he wanted Weasley to cling to him this tightly and swear at him like this forever.

“You’re shit at this," Ron complained, disentangling himself from Draco.

Draco just looked at him, already regretting the loss of contact between them. Feelings? Yes, he supposed he was shit at those.

“ _Neville_ flies better than you!” Ron declared, standing up and glaring at Draco, who couldn’t seem to manage his usual sneer and had to settle for a mixed expression of confusion and amusement. Maybe he was concussed. He hoped he was, as Weasley shook his head and re-joined Potter and Granger, the trio disappearing down the corridor, Draco staring after them, utterly perplexed by the confusing mixture of feelings that Weasley seemed to bring to the surface.

If they all survived the night, he’d have to do something about it. _Several_ things about it maybe…


	4. In Your Dreams

It was like third year all over again, Ron Weasley reflected, the idea almost amusing to him. The similarities just couldn’t be denied. Back then, there had been a murderer loose in the castle, same as now, except Harry had killed him. _Killed You Know Who._ The idea was surreal to him, almost like it was too good to be true. Ron couldn’t remember a time when there hadn’t been the threat of You Know Who lurking in the shadows. He’d heard the stories as a child of course, and they terrified him, granted, not quite as much as spiders, but it was a close thing. The only reason You Know Who came second to arachnids was that he was a shadow in the dark, some evil myth that _might_ still be alive, or might not. Spiders were real and alive. Way too alive for Ron’s liking.

But just like back in third year, they were all having a camp-out, not in the Great Hall this time, the Room of Requirement, but it _looked_ like the Great Hall – and there were all ages and all houses mixed together, just like there had been back then. Even the same purple sleeping bags. And just like back then, the Room was filled with so many whispers and wild rumours about what had happened, that it was like sleeping outside with a breeze rustling through the leaves every few seconds.

But unlike back then, Harry and Hermione were nowhere to be found. Hermione was off somewhere with Viktor Krum, making up for lost time, or was that making _out?_ Ron didn’t want to know. And Harry… Harry had disappeared with Ron’s sister, and he really, _really_ didn’t want to know. Of course, Ginny would probably tell him anyway and he’d need a memory modification charm for that inevitable retelling.

Pushing the thought aside, Ron grabbed a sleeping bag and pillow from the pile in the middle of the Room and began looking for somewhere to lie down. So much had happened in the past 24 hours that he felt like he hadn’t slept in a week.

He searched for an empty space, moving away from a group of giggling Ravenclaw girls who were gushing over Harry. He considered joining Ernie Macmillan and Susan Bones who were munching cookies and swapping chocolate frog cards, but no, he really needed to sleep. He finally retreated to a quiet back corner where there was only one other person, already curled up in their sleeping bag. Ron could see their pale blond hair from a few feet away. Maybe it was Luna, he thought, yawning as he unrolled his own sleeping bag and climbed into it. It hadn’t been made for tall people, the top of the sleeping bag only coming halfway up his chest even with his feet shoved right down into the bottom corners of it, as low as they could go. Well, it would do for a few hours anyway. He might be back in his own bed at the Burrow by tomorrow night, he realised, allowing himself to drift off with that comforting thought.

Ron wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep. It felt like it had only been five minutes, maybe ten, but it could have been hours; he wasn’t aware of the time. What he was aware of was a person shifting restlessly nearby, muttering in their sleep. Ron opened his eyes and squinted through the dark, trying to see who it was. Maybe he should check if they were okay, he thought, sitting up, the person’s mutters and mumbles filling his ears.

Ron stood up and shuffled over in his sleeping bag, clinging to its warmth and acting the chivalrous Gryffindor at the same time.

He hovered awkwardly, looking down at the person, who wasn’t Luna as he had first assumed. _Draco Malfoy._ Pain and anguish written into every line of his face as he pleaded with someone who wasn’t there. Someone who only lived in a nightmare.

“ _Please…no… don’t make me… I don’t want to… I don’t want to…”_ Draco pleaded, and Ron could see tears trickling from the corners of his eyes, which were squeezed shut so tightly, Ron wondered if he was in pain.

“ _No… stop … I’ll do it… just stop… please…. PLEASE!!”_ the last word was wrenched from Draco’s lips in a scream, and Ron stumbled back, he shouldn’t be here, he thought, as two things happened at once. First, Draco sat bolt upright, his grey eyes snapping open, and second, Ron tried to move away from him too quickly and tripped in his sleeping bag, slamming into the floor with a muffled _thump._

Ron groaned from his prone position on the floor, utterly winded.

“Weasley?” Draco’s voice said quietly. “What are you doing?”

Ron rolled over and looked at Draco, who still had tears trembling in his lower lashes, who was scared and vulnerable and _tortured._

This is _Draco,_ he reminded himself. Draco who called one of your best friend’s a Mudblood, who, _who…_ He wracked his brain for a minute, trying to remind himself what else Draco had done. He had plenty of reasons to hate Draco, he told himself. _Plenty._ And yet, none of them seemed to matter when he was looking at _this_ Draco. This fragile, vulnerable, terrified Draco.

“I just wanted to see if you were…okay," Ron said hesitantly, moving closer despite himself.

“I’m _fine,"_ Draco said, his voice breaking on the second word.

Ron bit his lip, watching a tear roll down Draco’s cheek before it was brushed away by his _own_ hand.

Ron paused for a minute, stunned by what he’d just done. He’d just touched Draco Malfoy. _Draco… Malfoy…_ his brain screamed at him, as Ron froze in place.

Draco looked shocked too, a pink tinge suffusing his cheeks. Nobody had touched him so gently in over a year. Every part of Draco’s existence had been harsh and cold and painful since the day he’d turned sixteen. Since the day he’d been branded a Death Eater and conscripted into the service of the Dark Lord. Weasley was gentle and warm and comforting and everything good that the last two years had stolen from Draco. He wanted Weasley to touch him again, he realised. But he would never _beg._ Malfoys didn’t beg. Ever. End of story.

Or they hadn’t… until now.

“Weasley, would you - ?" Draco hesitated. No, he was being stupid, insane, he realised, shaking his head. “Never mind," Draco said abruptly, laying back down and rolling onto his other side so he wouldn’t have to look at him and see the pity in his ridiculously blue eyes.

Ron Weasley stood stock still for a moment. On the one hand, he had more than seven years of hate for Draco and his family to consider. On the other… none of it mattered anymore.

Draco felt a warm weight at his back as Ron lay down beside him, snuggling close until they were practically spooning.

Draco rolled his eyes, but didn’t fight the arm that Weasley tentatively curled around his middle, a tingling warmth radiating through him, as the pair shifted a little closer, _just_ getting comfortable of course.

“Weasley," Draco mumbled, as he closed his eyes and nestled his head against a corner of the pillow. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“It’s _Ron,”_ came the sleepy reply. “Don’t flatter yourself, Draco.”

“Why not? I’m very… flattering…flatterable…” Draco mumbled nonsensically, stifling a yawn.

“Just go to sleep.” Ron grinned, pretending to be annoyed.

“I’m trying, but you keep talking,” Draco complained.

“I’ll stop then," Ron offered.

“Do,” Draco said mockingly, relaxing against him.

Sleep came easily, curled around each other and for the first time in a long while, neither were plagued by the nightmares that came all too often. Morning would come, and with it questions and doubts and awkwardness and complications, but here, in this moment, there was a comfort and a serenity that both needed, each finding what they hadn’t known they were looking for…safety and comfort in each other’s arms.


	5. Everything

As far as funerals went, it was lovely, really lovely. Lots of people came to pay their respects to Fred Weasley. Lots of people Ron had never even met or spoken to in his life. He knew some of their names of course, but for the most part, they were strangers to him. Just faces in a crowd.

He should have been sitting with his family, but they were right up the front and that was a little too close to Fred’s casket for his liking. So, here he was, sitting in the middle of the large church next to Draco Malfoy. That in itself was baffling. Ron was pretty sure Fred had never set foot in a church building when he was alive, except for the occasional christening of some distant baby cousin or other. Perhaps the weirdest thing was sitting next to Draco Malfoy at his brother’s funeral.

That was two things he hadn’t seen coming. One, he had never even entertained the possibility of Fred dying. He was too smart, too clever, too confident to be the one whose life should be cut short. And two, he would never in a million years have imagined sitting next to Draco Malfoy who looked entirely too handsome in his formal robes, and smelled entirely too good… was that cologne? Ron wanted to lean over and just bury his face in Draco’s chest and inhale every bit of that intoxicating scent, but he resisted because that would be weird. _Don’t be weird,_ he reminded himself.

And that was another thing, shouldn’t he be sad? Or feel something, anything at all? Ron found that the most worrying thing of all. George, poor sweet George, had gone up to give the eulogy and been unable to get out more than a word or two because he got all choked up with tears. But at least that was normal. Fred and George had been twins, two sides of the same coin, it would be weird if he wasn’t completely devastated.

Ron’s dad had gone up and rescued George and given the eulogy instead, his voice shaking more than once, and tears streaming down his face, but he’d got through it. And then Bill, brave, battle-scarred Bill had gotten up there and told some inspiring story about how Fred had helped him when he’d been recovering from Greyback’s attack. It was the one time Fred hadn’t told a joke, it seemed. Everything had been a joke to Fred. But no, Fred held some deep wisdom that Ron had never known existed. The way Bill told it, Fred had said there were two choices when something awful happened.

“Either stay here feeling sorry for yourself, or put it behind you and go live your life… and, I did. And I’ll do the same again. I’ll always miss my brother, but I’m going to live my life too. I owe Fred that,” Bill said quietly, stepping down as Fleur enveloped him in her arms.

The stories and tributes continued to flow, and still Ron felt nothing. Nothing but guilt that is. Fred was his brother and he was _dead._ He should feel sad, or depressed or cry or something. And he had nothing. Not a single tear drop was forthcoming. Ron tried. He tried to feel sad, his throat was even hurting, maybe it was working! But no, no tears. He cursed inwardly. Why was it so damn hard for him to feel something? Didn’t he love Fred? Didn’t he miss him as much as everyone else? He should miss him more than everyone else, he was his brother, and yet complete strangers were sobbing in the aisles and Ron still couldn’t shed one pathetic tear. He even tried yawning. Sometimes that would make his eyes water. Maybe then he would be able to shed a tear or two and at least _look_ like he missed his brother… _Merlin,_ was that what he’d come to? Pretending to grieve for his brother? Worse, the yawning probably made him look like he was bored with his _own brother’s funeral._

Disgusted with himself, Ron stood and quietly slipped out a side door, deciding he needed some air or a stiff drink, whichever came first. He crossed the road and stood across the street looking at the church building, his guilt, if possible, increasing. Great, he’d basically just ditched his own brother’s funeral. He was officially the worst brother ever.

He groaned and put his head in his hands. Why couldn’t he just be normal? Grieve like a normal person? Feel like a normal person? The only thing he’d felt for the duration of the funeral service (apart from an abundance of guilt) was an insane desire to smell Draco Malfoy’s shirt. What the actual _hell_ was wrong with him?

He sighed and dug a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. His mother would smack him stupid if she saw him smoking, but sometimes it helped relax him, just took the edge off his anxiety and self-loathing.

“That won’t help,” a voice said, just as Ron had lit one of his cigarettes and taken a deep drag.

He coughed and sputtered in surprise and looked up into Draco’s face.

Ron dropped the cigarette on the ground and ground it out with the toe of his shoe.

“What do you want, Draco?” he said dully.

Draco shrugged. “Saw you leave. Just wanted to see if you were alright,” he said, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his robes.

“I’m fine,” Ron said with a scowl, crossing his arms.

Draco quirked an eyebrow at him doubtfully.

“Well, not _fine,"_ Ron stammered quickly, seeming to realise it had sounded completely heartless. “I mean, my brother’s dead, how could I be fine? I’m sad obviously, I—” He paused awkwardly.

He looked Draco up and down, wondering whether or not to trust him, but who would Draco tell?

“I don’t feel anything,” Ron confessed.

“What?” Draco said quietly.

“Fred. He’s dead and I don’t feel anything. At all. I should. He—He’s my brother. And he’s dead. He’s _dead._ Fred’s dead and I feel nothing. I’m supposed to. You’re supposed to feel sad at funerals and _cry_ and—and I don’t have any funny, inspiring stories about Fred either. I can’t even think of _one._ What—what’s _wrong_ with me?” Ron rambled, running his hands through his hair. 

Draco watched his agonised pacing, completely at a loss for what to even say.

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Draco said tentatively, he really didn’t do this feelings crap often; it was distinctly un-Slytherin. “I mean, everyone deals with things in their own way…” he trailed off.

“I’m not _dealing._ I—I—” Ron paused mid-step and looked Draco dead in the eyes. “It shouldn’t have been Fred. He did everything right. He was successful doing the shop with George. He inspired people during the war with _Potterwatch._ He was making a difference and I—I just… _I ran away,"_ he whispered ashamedly, one of his greatest secrets finally out, and to Draco Malfoy of all people.

“What are you talking about?” Draco said slowly.

“During the war…with Harry and Hermione. I got mad and I took off. _I left them._ I ran away and I left them," Ron said, his breath coming in short gasps and his bottom lip trembling. “I’m not a war hero. I’m a coward. I’m scared of everything and I—I can’t even do simple things. Half the time when I apparate, I splinch myself, and I mess up simple spells and I—I can’t be an Auror. Harry can do that, I can’t, I’m not good enough, I never have been. I—maybe I feel nothing because I am nothing. I’m _nothing—”_

“Shut-up, Weasley," Draco said, grabbing his shoulders and staring him in the eyes. “Listen to me. You… Are… _Everything,”_ Draco declared, and when Ron still looked doubtful, Draco wrapped his arms around him tightly and held him close until Ron stopped gibbering. He felt Ron relax against him with a little sigh, and when Ron tilted his head up to look at him, Draco lost himself in the depths of his blue eyes; it was like drowning in an ocean of pain, and before Draco had even formed a conscious thought to do so, he’d captured Ron’s lips in a soft kiss. Ron gave a little desperate moan and clutched Draco tighter, returning the kiss, as Draco tasted his lips and slid his tongue into his mouth, unable to help himself.

They broke apart for air a few moments later, and Draco slowly sank to the ground, leaning against a parked car, still holding Ron close, his head resting on Draco’s chest. Ron inhaled deeply, finally breathing in Draco’s cologne like he’d been longing to do all day.

“You’re everything. _Everything,"_ Draco told him again, stroking Ron’s hair as the redhead finally let a single teardrop trace its way down his cheek, clinging to Draco as he felt something for the first time since the Battle that wasn’t guilt or shame.

Draco held him quietly for a long while, just stroking his hair and murmuring comforting words. Ron Weasley was everything. He was everything Draco had never been. He’d made mistakes and come back from them somehow. Draco was still trying to come back from his. Maybe his way back was right here, maybe it had been all along.


	6. Doubts, Dates & Draco

Ron Weasley looked into the mirror in his room with a critical expression. This was a bad idea, he knew it. A date. He had a date. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been on a date, if ever. Did snogging the daylights out of Lavender Brown in a deserted corridor count as a date? He suspected it didn't. So then, his first date, possibly ever. And _their_ first date. Together. As a couple. Were they a couple? No, he didn't think so. He'd been asked out. He'd said 'yes' (and blushed embarrassingly). He'd said 'yes' to going out, not to being a couple. They weren't a couple. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Was he overthinking this? Possibly. 

He checked his watch. He had one hour and eighteen minutes to cancel the date. He should cancel. He wanted to cancel. He wouldn't. He wasn't a coward. If he cancelled he would be. He gritted his teeth - no cancelling. One date. An evening. A few hours. A few minutes if it went really badly. Merlin, he just knew it was going to go badly. 

Should he have a shower? He glanced at his unruly red hair in the mirror. 'Yes' to the shower. Also 'yes' to a brush. And maybe a haircut. Was there time for a haircut? No. If he did get a haircut, not that he would, but _if_ he did, that would mean it was to impress his date. And if it went badly… No, he decided firmly. No haircut. 'Yes' to the shower though. 

Thirty minutes later he was back in front of the mirror. Back to painful agonizing. Merlin, his hair looked stupid. Should he style it? Try some product in it? Hair mousse, maybe? That was a thing, wasn't it? He was sure it was. Maybe he should ask Ginny, he thought. No. He would not ask Ginny. Too embarrassing. Should he tie it back into a ponytail like Bill's? Everyone said Bill's hair was cool except mum. No, his hair wasn't quite long enough. But he could tie it into a bun maybe. Was that girly? It was called a _man-_ bun for a reason, he thought. No, he could not go on a date with a man-bun. Maybe if he neatly combed it. Merlin, no. It looked like he was trying too hard. He set down the brush and ran his fingers through his hair, messing it up. Great, now he was right back where he'd started. 

He looked at his watch and grimaced - he had to be there in eight minutes and he hadn't even figured out what he was wearing! Seven minutes and seventeen shirts later, he was finally ready. Mostly. Should he bring flowers? Was that too much? Was he expected to bring flowers? To bring anything? Mum was always saying not to show up anywhere empty-handed. Why was dating so bloody hard? No, to hell with it, he would be late otherwise, he decided, apparating away and landing a street away from the restaurant. 

He walked quickly up the street, checking his watch and cursing. He was late. He quickened his pace, sweat trickling down his back, making him grimace. Great, now he'd be all sweaty and gross by the time he got there. He should've put on cologne to mask the smell. Merlin, did he smell? He sniffed at his shirt, trying not to be too obvious to other people standing on the street. No, he didn't smell. At least he didn't think so. Could you even smell your own sweat? Just stop overthinking and get in there, he told himself crossly, shoving the restaurant door open. 

He hadn't expected there to be so many people. It made him feel more awkward than ever. What if they all watched him bumble his way through the date? Worse, what if he was stood up by his date and they all saw? This was a bad idea, terrible, the worst, the dumbest idea in the history of dumb ideas, Ron thought anxiously, tripping over someone's bag and falling headlong into his date's lap. 

Oh no, he'd ruined the date before it had even started, he thought, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Him and his stupid big feet. He was too clumsy, too tall, too insecure, too--

He froze as Draco dropped a kiss on his freckled nose and looked up at the Slytherin upside-down. 

"Couldn't resist making an entrance?" Draco said smugly, smoothing Ron's hair. 

"Sorry, I'm late," Ron said, sitting up red-faced. But Draco waved his apology away. 

"Perfect timing. Any earlier and you would've caught me raiding the bread basket. Very poor manners and no control with carbohydrates, I'm afraid," Draco admitted guiltily. 

"Suppose we should order then," Ron said with a nervous laugh. 

"Suppose we should," Draco said slowly. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving. I can't wait for _dessert,_ " he said with a sly wink. 

Ron blushed, resisting the temptation to touch his nose where Draco had kissed it. Maybe this date wouldn't be so terrible after all. 


	7. Twelve Fail Safe Ways

Dinner at Ron's had been…  _ nice.  _ Draco was prepared to admit that. Ron's new house was small, certainly, but at least it was  _ his.  _ Draco didn't think he could have stomached the idea of showing up for a meal at the Burrow. As far as he was aware, Ron hadn't told his parents they were dating yet. He suspected Ron would be written out of the will for it when he did. The accusations would fly -  _ Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy's son, traitor, murderer, coward…  _ And then Ron would be caught between a rock and a hard place. And Draco wouldn't make him choose. He knew what he would choose if the situations were reversed - family. He'd choose his family. He always had, regardless of the dire consequences of such a choice. But, for Ron, surely the choice would be easy. His family was warm, loving and uncomplicated. The polar opposite of Draco's. Did he want Ron to choose him if it came down to it? Of course he did. Did the relationship have a future knowing how the Weasleys felt about him? Unlikely, but that was no reason to give up on what happiness he had found with Ron. He was the last person he'd ever expected to want or need, and yet somehow he did. 

_ Don't borrow trouble,  _ he reminded himself, standing up to stretch and perusing the odd jumble of books Ron had stacked haphazardly on his shelf. An old, dog-eared copy of  _ Twelve Fail Safe Ways To Charm Witches  _ caught Draco's eye and he smirked as he picked it up. 

He flicked through the flimsy volume, a low chuckle escaping his lips. The small book was rife with inaccuracy and poor advice. It was a wonder Ron had gone out with Granger and Brown at all. 

Retrieving his wand from his coat pocket, Draco decided to do a little helpful editing. He tapped the front cover with his wand, a new title forming in gleaming green and silver:  _ Twelve Fail Safe Ways To Charm Draco Malfoy.  _ He cast a covert glance toward the kitchen where Ron was finishing up the dinner dishes, deciding to add some of his own advice to the book. 

"Do you take sugar in your tea?" Ron called from the kitchen, as Draco quickly stuffed the book back on the shelf. 

"Just some milk, thanks," he called back, flinging himself on the sofa and trying to look the picture of innocence as Ron entered the room, levitating two cups of tea and a small plate of biscuits before him. 

Draco's grey eyes flickered guiltily to the bookshelf as Ron passed him his cup of tea. He hadn't put the book back in the same spot, he realised, cursing the faint blush that rose in his pale cheeks. 

"What are you looking so guilty about?" Ron asked as he stirred sugar through his own milky cup of tea. 

"Nothing," Draco said with a contemptuous little toss of his head, deliberately not looking Ron in the eyes. 

If he looked into those pools of intense blue… it would lead to trouble. It always did. 

"Draco," Ron said slowly, and Draco fought the smile that was curving his lips against his will. Every time Ron put on his stern Auror voice, it made Draco want to laugh for some reason he hadn't determined yet. Maybe it was the freckles, he thought, stealing a glance at Ron's face. No, it was the eyes, damn those blue eyes. Draco could drown in the ocean blue depths of those irises. 

"What have you been doing?" Ron asked suspiciously. 

"Nothing. I've just been sitting here, minding my own - " 

"Rubbish," Ron said in a clipped neutral tone. "You know the wards on this place alert me whenever a spell is cast that doesn't carry my magical signature. Supposed to be an Anti-intruder safeguard, but - " he shrugged. "It's pretty handy for other things too. I just have to say the word and the last spell you cast will light up the room like a Christmas tree." 

Draco shrugged nonchalantly though his composure was rapidly slipping. 

"On the count of three, Draco," Ron said, grinning as though he was quite enjoying threatening his boyfriend. 

"One." 

Draco held his breath. 

"Two." 

Draco's eyes met Ron's, and he smirked, goading the Gryffindor on. 

"Three." 

Draco waited with bated breath for the curse to fall. 

" _ Revele la verite!"  _ Ron exclaimed. There was a flash of blue, but whether it was the spell or the light gleaming in Ron's eyes, Draco couldn't tell. Luminous green footprints marked a path from the sofa to the bookshelf, a ghostly green handprint marking the book Draco had meddled with. 

"Aha!" Ron cried triumphantly, leaping up and seizing the book. " _ Twelve Fail Safe Ways To Charm Draco Malfoy?"  _ he read questioningly, raising his eyebrows. 

"Go ahead," Draco said, a challenge in his tone. "Maybe you'll learn something." 

"First of all, if Hermione ever catches you defacing a book like that - " Ron broke off, having just read  _ Fail Safe Way #1 - do that ridiculously loud laugh that makes everyone stare. There's nothing more charming than a wizard who is free to be himself - loudly and unashamedly.  _

Ron looked at Draco curiously and turned the page to read  _ Fail Safe Way #2,  _ his eyebrows ascending almost into his hairline as he continued reading Draco's little notes and tips - all the way up to dressing in reverse -  _ Ronald Bilius Weasley naked from the socks up is guaranteed to charm the robes off Draco Malfoy every single time,  _ he read, blushing furiously. 

He set the book down, rendered almost speechless by the revelations he had found, from the fact that Draco knew about his two a.m snack raids, to the somewhat irksome realisation that Draco enjoyed it when Ron was mad because he would scrunch up his nose, which was altogether  _ charming  _ of course. 

"You - "  _ You really think I'm charming?  _ He wanted to ask Draco, but thought better of it. "You're an idiot," Ron said, shaking his head. 

"Ah - I look forward to the sequel then," Draco said, stretching his arms over his head. " _ Twelve Fail Safe Ways To Fall Head Over Heels For An Idiot."  _

"You think I'm head over heels for you?" Ron said, a crimson blush suffusing his cheeks. 

"I know you are - arse over tits for me most days of the week, but luckily I find it to be one of your more charming qualities," Draco mused, sipping at his tea. "Heart on your sleeve, all that," he said, waving a hand airily. 

"Typical bloody Gryffindor in other words," Ron said with a smug smile. 

"Charming as ever," Draco declared, moving closer to Ron so he could count the freckles that dotted his nose again, and stare broodily as he did so. 

He soon lost count however, as Ron pressed a charming, and altogether sweet kiss to his lips, seeming unable to help himself. 

"You looked like you needed kissing," he mumbled. 

"Need it? No," Draco said quietly. "Want it?" he said, his eyes gleaming. "Well, that's another matter entirely," he murmured in Ron's ear, allowing the Gryffindor to curl around him, trapping him in his long arms, and holding him to his warm heart. Draco Malfoy was charmed indeed… 


End file.
